Mr Wooster and the Walk Away Cone Shoppe
by msliz
Summary: Bertie has melting ice cream. Jeeves decides to take action. Jeeves POV companion to LucyLouKazoo's Jeeves and the WalkAway Cone Shoppe. Wodehouse slash.


Mr. Wooster and the Walk-Away Cone Shoppe

by MsLiz

_**Intro: **This is a Jeeves POV companion to LucyLouKazoo's "Jeeves and the Walk-Away Cone Shoppe." Many thanks to dear Sky at IndeedSir for beta and support. Maximum more thanks to Lucy for writing the original story (including the prompt for a Jeeves POV), her generous sharing of her plot and dialogue, and her much-appreciated encouragement and kind words during beta-time._

The metropolis was in the grasp of a brutal heat wave, with today being particularly excruciating. I had drawn a cooling bath for Mr. Wooster when he awoke, but, as I knew from my own experience earlier in the day, the restorative effect lasted only as long as one was immersed.

When he emerged from his room, my breath caught in my throat at the sight of him. His lower half was dressed in handsome cream-colored linen trousers that set off his frame perfectly. An elegant sight, to be sure. But when I beheld the upper half of my employer's physique, I felt heat of a different sort rise in my cheeks. His torso was clothed in only an undershirt, which was most out of character for him. However, his choosing that particular style of raiment merely served as proof of the oppressiveness of the day.

He moved to the open window, hoping in vain to catch whatever slight zephyr might go wafting by. I had intended to remain in the room to do the small amount of straightening that was required, but Mr. Wooster's state of _deshabillé_ proved too distracting. I felt it better to retire to the kitchen to attend to other tasks, the first of which was to press a cool cloth to my face in an effort quell the heat that had nothing to do with the temperature outside.

Shortly afterward the telephone rang. Mr. Glossop requested Mr. Wooster accompany him to a local ice cream parlour that had recently opened for business. He eagerly accepted; by the time he entered the kitchen, he had donned both shirt and jacket, and looked a bit the worse for his trouble considering the weather.

"Fancy something sweet, Jeeves?"

"Thank you, sir, but no." I carefully controlled my voice and feigned being engrossed in rearranging the contents of a cabinet in an attempt to cover the surge of emotion I felt at both his kindness to inquire after me in this way and my own unbidden thought that it was only _that _sweetness I desired. He bade me goodbye and took his leave.

I made my way to his bedroom for the day's review of his wardrobe. I was most particular that his clothing be kept clean and mended, and I was diligent in this task. I opened the armoire and, as often happens, felt a shudder run through me as an intoxicating scent filled my nostrils. It was a combination of leather, cologne, cedar, and soap—the aroma that now and ever will until my dying day evoke Mr. Wooster. My inspection revealed that no mending was required, and so I returned to the kitchen to begin preparations for afternoon tea. A short while later I heard him return to the flat and settle into the living room.

"Pfah to Edison, Jeeves!"

"Indeed, sir?" I replied. I opened the kitchen window wider in an effort to bring more air into the room and moved toward the living room to enquire if my employer required anything of me.

"And to Newton! And all those other ruddy inventors," I heard him continue.

"The open kitchen window should allow for the passage of air from..." but when I regarded the sight before my eyes, I was momentarily left speechless and frozen in the doorway.

Mr. Wooster had returned himself to his previous state of undress; his jacket and shirt had been flung over the back of a chair. He had draped himself carelessly over the sofa, as if he had collapsed rather than sat in place. The unintended result was a picture of languid repose. In his hand was a walk-away cone that he had raised to his mouth; in the next heartbeat, he swirled the treat over his outstretched tongue. I knew he could not possibly realize the effect he was having on me, but that did not lessen the impact. Attempting to regain my composure, I wiped my perspiring palms on my apron.

"What ho, Jeeves!" he greeted me, gesturing toward me with his cone. "Do you, by chance, happen to know the genius responsible for this particular work of brilliance?"

My eyes, seeming to have a will of their own, remained fixed on the ice cream as he returned it to his mouth. I took a deep breath, grateful for a topic—any topic except the sight in front me—on which to focus my thoughts.

"I believe, sir, that ice cream has been a traditional treat since the Middle Ages. It is only more recently, most notably at the 1904 World's Fair, that the 'Walk-Away Cone' became popularized. Its invention is credited to Lebanese baker, Abe Doumar."

Mr. Wooster licked and swirled his tongue over the ice cream while I was talking. His eyes were sparkling, and I heard him utter one or two small moans of delight. Every movement and sound he made was a joy and torture to behold.

"Would you prefer to...that I retrieve a dish and spoon, sir? It's a considerably neater method of consuming ice cream, if you'll allow me to say so..." I quickly turned toward the kitchen to retrieve the implements, but he protested.

"No no, Jeeves! That won't do at all! The cone is the best part!"

I turned back toward him, foiled in my attempt to make a graceful exit. I was transfixed and could do nothing but gaze at him until I realized the gaze had become a stare. A small drip of melting ice cream, which originated at the left corner of his exquisite mouth, was tracing its way down to his jaw. I shuddered when I felt my tongue in my closed mouth imperceptibly moving as if to trace the path of the dripping treat. I coughed and forced myself to speak.

"Perhaps a napkin, sir?"

"Nonsense, Jeeves. It's silly to try to sop any of this up before I've finished. It'll all melt again before I'd even caught the first bit."

Perceiving that there was to be no escape, I felt my resolve weaken. As earlier today and as in days before this one, I could feel the blood in my face and feared the colour would be obvious to see.

Suddenly Mr. Wooster exclaimed, "Drat!" We both saw the ice cream dripping down his fingers. He moved the cone to his other hand and began lapping up the melted concoction. Of course, the ice cream then began to drip down his other hand. He chose a different tack and began licking the cone itself. I could control myself no longer and made my way to his side.

"Are you quite sure you don't—" he licked the back of his hand where the ice cream had dripped, "—want some, Jeeves? Plenty to," lick, "spare!"

I felt curiously calm now that my mind was set on a course of action. "Sir," I said, noting that my voice had taken on an uncharacteristic low, husky quality, "you seem to have missed a small amount here." I pointed an imperceptibly shaking finger toward Mr. Wooster's free hand, which he was holding up at an awkward angle in order to avoid contact with the furniture.

"I know that, Jeeves!" he said, between licks, "but I can't very well do two things at once, you know!"

I saw the melted ice cream on his free hand begin to slide down past his wrist, and despite my earlier resolution, I trembled at the thought of what I was about to do. "If you would allow me, sir," I said, and placed my fingers on his forearm. I bent slightly at the waist and lifted his hand to my mouth. The tip of my outstretched tongue slid over the trail of melted ice cream, lapping it up gently.

It was beyond reasoning that such a simple thing as the touch of tongue to hand should make one's breath catch in such a way. I felt compelled to go further, and I closed my mouth on his thumb. I swirled my tongue on the tip, then took the entire length in my mouth, sucking and licking delicately until all traces of vanilla flavour were long eradicated and I could taste only him on my tongue. I felt aroused almost beyond bearing, and at the same time I felt the familiar ache of shame at my improper desire for my employer. As I stroked his palm thoroughly with my tongue, I told myself that if nothing else, at least I had been permitted this one moment's pleasure. Even after his skin was clean, I took a moment to memorize the feeling of his flesh under my mouth, the unique scent and taste of him burned into my mind to be relived innumerable times in the privacy of my own chambers. Finally, agonizingly, I forced myself to pull away.

"Thank you Jeeves!" he said, "You're a wonder!" As I had anticipated, he had inferred none of my improper motives, gazing at me with innocent and guileless blue eyes. I felt a mingling of regret and relief at Mr. Wooster's continuing failure to perceive my desire for him.

"I'm glad to be of assistance, sir," I said, smiling slightly. He was always most generous in his praise of my efforts, and I took great joy in that, forcing aside the familiar pain occasioned by my unspoken _tendresse_ for my employer. It was not his fault that I felt such improper emotions for him, and I resolved not to allow my personal torment to ruin this experience.

I knew I could take no more and turned to make my way back to the kitchen. My face was again in need of a cold compress; the other portions of my anatomy demanding relief would have to wait until I retired for the evening. I could hear Mr. Wooster lapping at his ice cream once again, and I closed my eyes involuntarily as another wave of hopeless desire passed through me.

"Good ice cream, isn't it Jeeves?" he called, and I could hear him licking his lips.

I stood just at the kitchen door and turned to look at him. "Delicious, sir," I responded. I entered the kitchen and added softly, "The best I've had."

THE END


End file.
